When Her Back is Turned
by Emeralds2715
Summary: Hawkeye is assigned to take out a rogue assassin undercover at a formal gala in Russia.
1. I

So, Clintasha muse is devouring me whole, and I seriously couldn't resist-because I have no willpower where these two are concerned. At all. Currently, I'll consider this a one-shot, though I may consider a continuation of sorts if I don't _despise_ myself for this when I wake up in the morning-because this was written at about 4am, and I really doubt it's spot-on where grammar is concerned.

* * *

"Agent Barton, do you copy?"

Clint smoothed the expensive fabric of his tuxedo, his discomfort palpable, and leaned one arm comfortably over the balcony. He had always gravitated toward high places-quiet, isolated nooks from which he could observe without distraction the events surrounding him.

Beneath him, the dance floor was alive with colors-with the whirl of women's skirts as they danced, the twinkle of fluted champagne glasses held in slender hands, the rows of ebony coats, men dressed all in black and white. It was an elegant sight, a beautiful one-and one that Clint, who vastly preferred the rewards of much more straightforward scenarios-appreciated very little.

"I copy." Falling back against the wall and turning his head ever so slightly, he adjusted his ear piece.

"Do you see her yet?" Coulson's voice was calm, collected; unlike Clint-who was, in all honesty, feeling quite ridiculous outfitted in suit and tails-he was back at the base, munching on chips by the sound of it. Of course, it wasn't as though he wasn't a fan of action-but he certainly wasn't a fan of galas-and undercover or not, this mission was quickly growing boring.

Sullenly, Clint peered over the balustrade, his sharp eyes picking out each and every individual figure with enviable ease.

"You said she had red hair, didn't you?" he asked, drawing back while maintaining xa lazy watch out of the corner of his eye. "If she does, I would have seen her by now."

Coulson had just begun to speak when a waiter approached, a tray of hors d'oeuvres balanced delicately atop one flattened palm. Pressing an ear to the wall, he waved him away, and was careful not to speak again until he was out of sight. "Run it by me again, Coulson-if this woman has been killing off people left and right, what in the world makes you think she's going to stop in for a dance and some champagne?"

With an air of long-suffering patience-tainted, perhaps, with a note of amusement-he replied, "The Black Widow is a paid assassin; she goes wherever needed, and our sources tell us that tonight, it will be here."

Sighing, Clint turned once more to the party below. The music fell lightly on his ears, a piano composition, strong and carrying. "Well, I don't see-" His voice trailed away abruptly. There, immersed in the crowd, he felt certain he had seen a flash of brightest crimson-not pale red, or orange or ginger, but truly _red. _"Never mind: I think I've got her, Coulson."

"Good-follow her." Resisting the urge to respond with sarcasm at the obviousness of this suggestion-and, furthermore, to shut down the connection entirely-Clint waited until a group of partygoers decided to descend the stairs, and fell inconspicuously in among them, careful all along not to lose her.

Dressed as she was all in black, it was only the brightness of her hair that made her so easy to pick out in such a large gathering, and Clint wondered briefly why she had not thought to have it dyed-pride, perhaps, if the little he knew of women stood for anything at all. Women were vain things, or at least those he had met in his travels.

It was a struggle to reach her through the crowd, and Coulson's constant reminders of what was at stake if he failed did little to soothe his frayed nerves, but eventually-_finally-_he found her. She sat alone at an otherwise empty table, the cut of her slender legs, folded against the soft-backed chair, outlined plainly beneath her gown.

The Black Widow was not at all what Clint had pictured her to be-an older woman, perhaps-at least, older than Clint himself. The fact that she was Russian had even conjured in his mind-stubbornly, irrevocably-the image of the woman in Rocky and Bullwinkle.

Her hair, long and cherry-red, had been drawn back into an elegant, spiraling bun atop her head; two curls, free of their bindings, framed her pale face. Her lips were full, parted ever so slightly, but it was her eyes that truly drew him in-thickly lashed, wide, brightly blue-green.

More startling than anything else, however, was her _age. _She was certainly not yet twenty-sixteen or seventeen at most, he imagined.

As Clint approached, he eyed her with a mingling sense of relief, and regret. On the one hand, it was plain, surely, that S.H.I.E.L.D. had exaggerated the threat she posed; surely such a young girl was not half so capable as Fury had detailed in the file Clint had received so many days ago. Short of throwing knives around and clumsily shooting off a pistol or two, it was likely she would go down relatively without any fight at all. It was a shame-truly, a shame-that she had to die.

But orders were orders.

"You seem lonely, miss. Aren't you enjoying yourself?" Though Clint had never been a social sort, he forced what he hoped would appear to be an effortlessly charming smile. After a moment, she glanced up at him through her lashes. When she spoke, he was surprised to find not a trace of any accent at all-Russian, or otherwise; her English was flawless.

"There's a difference between loneliness and solidarity." she said smoothly, leaning back in her seat and toying absently with a strand of fiery hair. "Would you like a drink?"

Her gown-black, hugging her body evenly from the waist down-shimmered in the light as she stood and crossed smoothly to the bar. "A vodka, please-straight. And for my friend?"

Eying her teasingly, he asked, "Aren't you a little young for straight vodka, Miss-"

"Rushman." she finished for him, accepting her drink without sparing a glance for the bartender behind her. "Natalie Rushman. And you are?"

Hell if that was her name-not that he _remembered _it (alright, perhaps he hadn't read her files as thoroughly as he had been instructed to-or, for that matter, at all) but as far as he knew, Rushman was _certainly _no Russian name.

Well, two could play _that _game. "Matthew Glennin." he replied firmly, extending his hand; she hesitated only a moment, and then her slender fingers slid beneath his palm. She was dwarfed by him, and Clint couldn't help but feel another pang of guilt at what he was about to do.

"It's stuffy in here, Ms. Rushman-don't you think? Perhaps a breath of fresh air-"

If she was on to him, it didn't show in her face-but then, young as she was, it was unlikely she had mastered the art of hiding emotions as well as Clint himself had; if she was hiding anything, it would likely be easy to read in her face-and right now, her expression was blank, elegant.

The sky outside was a dull, black canvas, sprinkled with an uneven scattering of stars, pinpricks of white against the darkness.

"Do you often flirt with strangers?" she asked, her lips parting in a wry smile that only just reached her eyes, "Or am I a special case?" Her voice was breathy, lower than that of most women he had spoken to before.

"Only with the ones I like, Ms. Rushman." he returned easily.

The redhead turned her back to him and leaned over the railing of the marble terrace. Beneath them, the garden stretched on for miles, an endless maze of neatly trimmed walls of rose bushes, hibiscus blooms, poppies as red as her hair. Clint was reminded of how simple it would be to fulfill his task, here and now, when she was plainly unaware of any foul play. "I'm flattered." Her fingers-slender, white as snow-trailed gently through her hair, tucking a stubborn curl behind her ear.

Now or never-and every sensible part of him was screaming for it to be _now. _He knew this, had been down this road before-if he hesitated even a moment, he would become attached-would begin to _pity _her. And life was complicated enough without morals screwing what little reward remained to be reaped from it.

Grimacing, he drew his bow silently from the compartment built into the inner back of his suit-at the very least, it was good for _something-_and had only just moved to fire when-

Without warning, he blinked-and she was gone. He whirled around, pointing his loaded bow into the night, and was hit head-on, unexpectedly, and _hard. _Before he knew what was happening, he was on the ground, coated with a fresh layer of grime and dirt. Silent as a shadow in the night, a figure was silhouetted briefly against the sky before it turned once, and landed on its feet before him. Vaulting swiftly to his feet, Clint checked that his bow was intact and peered into the darkness.

"I'm insulted." a voice quipped, drawing steadily nearer. "Do you really think I'm _that _stupid?"

As luck had it-or, rather, training and a little bit of enhancement-his eyes had never had much trouble adjusting to the dark, and after a dicey moment, he could make out first her vague outline, then her exact likeness.

"If you come quietly-" he began, reeling off the familiar words that seemed, suddenly, very forced, "I can promise you that we will be lenient-"

"You aim to kill, Mr. Barton." She spoke his name so dispassionately that it was a moment before Clint realized she knew it at all. Noting his expression, she added "I do my research."

She was armed, a gun in her hand, though he was not entirely sure where it had come from-and it was plain by the look in her eyes that, despite his initial doubts, she had used it before. The best thing to do was to stall her-wait until the perfect moment arose to act, hopefully one during which her attention was compromised. "So do you." he replied. "Which, I believe, is the reason for our meeting in the first place."

She eyed him for a minute-not unguarded, in all honesty, but very vaguely intrigued; feeling instinctively that it was the best chance he could hope to get, Clint tossed his bow and grabbed her in a head lock. Her gun made a dull thud as it hit the ground, and he palmed it swiftly before pointing it at her face.

Suddenly, she was anything but blasé. Her face was a mask of pain-albeit, a stunning one; her eyes, like two chips of sea glass, swam with tears, and her lips trembled. "Your name-tell me your name." he demanded, playing on her fear without hesitation, and hating himself for it.

"Romanoff." she whimpered, falling limp in his arms. "Natasha Romanoff. Please-I-"

Natasha. The name was strikingly familiar, though he could not recall ever having heard it before. He didn't bother to ask whether or not she was telling the truth this time; not only would it serve her little purpose to lie-not with, that was, her end so near-but he felt keenly that there was sincerity in her voice.

"What were you sent here to do, Natasha?" And then, when she could manage nothing but a hysterical sob that choked off in her throat, he shook her until her red curls came loose from the bun that had once held them. "_What were you sent here to do?_"

"Bobrikov." she sobbed, her porcelain cheeks slick with tears, "I was s-supposed to kill him. But he's been surrounded by guards all day, I-I couldn't get to him."

Of _course _she couldn't get to him-a huge figure in the government, it was more than unlikely that Bobrikov would leave himself open to assassinations of any kind, it was _unfathomable. _The more Natasha spoke, the less Clint could bring himself to believe she was a danger to anyone-to him, to S.H.I.E.L.D., even to Dimitri Borikov.

How could he kill her? How could he kill this harmless, helpless girl, sent out to handle a task far too big for her to ever dream of completing?

"Natasha-calm down. Breathe. I promise-I'm not going to hurt you."

A petrified cry caught in her throat, and her eyes found his-shimmering beneath a filmy layer of tears. "You're not?" she managed breathlessly.

He moved to nod-when a fist caught him hard in the mouth. Clint had only just stumbled out of the way when another-small, fast, hard hitting-sent him reeling. Natasha was up and on the move, face still wet with the telltale traces of her crocodile tears, her full lips pursed in the beginnings of a smile. Before he could react to this surprise, she had ducked between his legs, using his own weight against him to bring him crashing down. She elbowed him so hard in the groin that his own eyes teared, and somehow-inexplicably, _unbelievably-_she stood over him, the black high heel of her foot poised on his stomach, ready to grind a neat little hole into his abdomen should he give the slightest indication of any desire to attempt to escape.

She had been _playing him. _

And he had taken one look into those big, tearful eyes and fallen for it-hook line and sinker.

Smiling, Natasha cocked her gun and pointed it in his face. She was beautiful in the moonlight, flaming curls now loose and tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes alight-but more importantly, she was _deadly. _

He had underestimated her-and severely, at that.

His precious bow crunched beneath Natasha's heel as she ground it into the dirt. Clint had nothing left in his arsenal-nothing left but words, and desperation-words, and desperation…and one _last _defense.

"Natasha-you don't have to do this." he began, but before the sentiment had even truly begun, she was on top of him. They were chest to chest, and her eyes were fixed on his.

"You don't understand _anything _about what I have to do_._" she hissed, pressing the barrel of the gun into the fragile hollow of his throat. He could see, however, that he had hit a nerve. Her eyes flickered, and for the slightest of moments-so slight, in fact, that afterwards he would question whether he had simply imagined it-she seemed…afraid. Repentant. Unsure.

"Believe me." Clint grimaced, and a bitter smile played briefly across his features. "I do."

She eyed him askance, hesitated only for a second-but it was enough. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a syringe, uncapped it, and stabbed it into her forearm.

Momentarily, she struggled, but by the time he had gotten to his feet, she was already long gone. He caught her in his arms and threw her over his shoulder, marveling at how someone so small and slight could have so easily sent him to his knees, dizzy with agony.

As she was now-unconscious, silent, her eyes closed-Natasha seemed so different-as sweet and vulnerable as he had imagined her to be when first they'd met. "Don't worry." he chuckled, glancing down at her prone form, "It's just some sleeping meds; I have a feeling you're gonna be very useful to us one day, Ms. Romanoff."


	2. II

So, I caved-and decided to tag on an extra little chapter to the post I made earlier, which I initially intended to be a one-shot. Natasha may seem slightly out of character, but she's several years younger in this storyline than she will be in Iron Man 2 + The Avengers; in my opinion, she has come a _long _way in the in-between period, and though she's not _as _hostile here as she may have been, say, after having recently escaped the KGB, she definitely isn't at all as-refined, we'll say-here as she will become during her time with S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm not sure whether I will continue from here, since ideas are sort of aaaaall over the place right now, but I hope you enjoy it either way!

* * *

Silence. Deep, utter, implacable silence-tranquility, the likes of which Natasha could not recall having experienced in years-if ever at all. Though a part of her-a part that would, in sickness and in health, never truly lower its guard-felt vaguely that something was _wrong, _attempting even to move made her dizzy-and, after all, it was such a sweet reward to lie here, unmoving, separate from everything.

Natasha Romanoff was undoubtedly unaccustomed to leisure of any kind. At six years old, a young Natasha-then, Natalia Romanova-had been rescued from an orphanage following the untimely death of her parents in a fire-a fire which she would later find to be anything but an accident-by the very hands that would later prove her undoing.

To say that the KGB was strict was an erroneous understatement. From the moment she was handed so willingly into their clutches, Natasha's life was irrevocably changed. Almost immediately afterward, she was strapped in a chair just the right size for a child-complete, of course, with straps to bind her as she screamed and pleaded for help-and subjected to a series of experiments. Some would prove useful-lengthening her life expectancy to an unnatural number of years, increasing her agility, strengthening her tiny body, sharpening her mind. Others, however-some, side affects of more beneficial serums; still more, inflicted intentionally-would see to it that, among other limitations, she would never have children; assassins and killers, after all, certainly had no use for children-nor was it practical that they should suffer a monthly agony that would more than likely interfere with their work.

Furthermore-an intricate process that-while far less scientific, far less easily calculated than the others-would change her in the most important and unthinkable way possible; bit by bit, piece by piece, the memories she had once cherished were tampered with, twisted and warped until they resembled something different entirely. In Natasha's mind, the KGB had rescued her-saved her from a fate worse than death, welcomed her into the fold with open arms. And if they showed her no love-if, plainly, they saw her as nothing more than a pawn among countless others in their games-that only meant that she had to _fight harder _to impress them.

Natasha was nine when she first committed a murder. Despite her age, she was already a capable fighter-pale and painfully slender, she had the leggy, 'not quite finished' look of a young deer, and yet she had taken down men twice her size without batting an eye. Her training was a constant that never ceased; she ate once a day, and only that which would make her stronger. She drank only water, and slept four hours per night. For the most part, she was on the battlefield-grappling mindlessly with any and all opponents presented to her, encouraged rather dispassionately by her trainer, who seemed rarely impressed with her no matter _what _she did.

During the precious few hours-though, not precious in _her _opinion, for Natasha was a stubborn child who relished the thrill of a fight-she spent away from the ring, she was schooled-not merely in history, in literature, in mathematics-but in nearly every other imaginable subject: English, Latin, French, the sciences-both engineering and astronomical-and, of course biological.

"You must battle not only with your reflexes, Natasha, but with your mind." her tutor had told her once, "Remember, always, that the human body is a wonderfully fragile thing. There are pressure points, and one must remember each in turn if one hopes to succeed."

From an early age, Natasha was strong-willed, and she swiftly rose in the ranks. If she lacked loyalty-well, likely that would come in time, and could be instilled under false pretenses easily enough if the need arose. And if, also, she was impetuous, pigheaded, a danger not only to herself but to those around her-well, if they found themselves unable to _beat _such traits out of her, they would do whatever else necessary to see to it that her spirit was not broken but properly _honed_ and _restrained_, even if it meant scarring every available stretch of porcelain white skin on her body with a rawhide whip.

The day of Natasha's first kill was a beautiful one; the first snow of the season, in fact, had just begun as she joined her trainer in the courtyard. Though she longed to ask a million questions, she knew the price of speaking out of turn-and though she was more than brave enough to handle a beating, however malicious her tormentor proved to be, she had been trying her best to ingratiate herself into the KGB's good graces-not, in truth, out of any sense of continuing loyalty, but rather out of an individual desire to prove herself.

The prisoner under questioning was an old, old man-past eighty or even ninety, perhaps, and deteriorating with the horrible certainty that meant death was not far off. He was an American, a former spy, and had been held in the selfsame cell for many years. Finally, he had outlived his usefulness-had cracked, under the constant torture-and poured out everything he knew. He was broken and sad, and Natasha felt a sense of something she had not been trained to feel-_pity. _Understanding only vaguely that she should not so much as entertain the idea of such a thing, she altered her expression to one of disinterest, and surveyed him blankly with blue-green eyes that seemed to see everything and nothing all at once.

"In his mouth, Natasha. You are a child yet, and your aim is shoddy; remember that a shot to the mouth will kill without fail."

When the gun was handed to her, she complied without a word. Her hands shook, and she was scathing of her own cowardice; though she had never known it before, _she feared this. _She had never taken someone's life before.

Her trainer watched her through hooded, calculating eyes, and she knew that hesitation would mean disdain and contempt. She could not afford the luxury of pity; it was not hers to feel. He had called her a _child. _

She was capable. She was _not a child._

Though she longed to close her eyes, and though frustrated tears-tears she knew better than to free-burned in her eyes, she stood strong and firm. Just as she had done countless times in training, she pulled the trigger. She would never forget his eyes, the world-weary acceptance fading, replaced with what could only be accurately described as _nothing. _There was _nothing in his eyes. _

"Very good, Natasha; you show great promise. Next time, we will be less lenient; while a shot to the mouth will ensure instant death, there are others just as accountably capable of causing pain-and as you know well, Natasha, pain is a wonderfully powerful tool."

_Pain. _Yes, _pain. _A dizzy, endless sort of pain. Every breath was accompanied by a pang of it, but Natasha Romanoff was nothing if not bitterly persistent. Gritting her teeth against the agony, she tried moving her arm; her veins burned with an ice-cold poison, but though it was awful, it was also bearable-pain, after all, was nothing but a trick played on one's body by the mind. Those who were truly capable knew that, and it strengthened them indefinitely. Yes, she had certainly grown since childhood-from a bold, flighty, headstrong prodigy of the KGB to a cold-blooded freelance assassin, a woman capable of manipulating the thoughts and feelings of those around her with tip-tilted eyes, a teasing smile. And if there were doubts-if there were _regrets-_they were easily pushed to the farthest reaches of her mind.

And yet…that _man-_that man, whose face lingered tauntingly out of her reach, a vague impression of warm brown eyes, a serious face. He had made her regret-had brought her fears back to life when she had finally convinced herself they were gone forever.

The very memory caused her breath to turn shallow and harsh; with an effort, she calmed it and gently extricated herself from a tangle of white linen sheets. Willing herself to ignore the pain, and the way the room spun over her head in a sickening arch, she propped herself up against the bedpost and glanced around.

She was in a small room-all white, and horribly antiseptic looking-and though memories of her past were few and far between, she could not help but be reminded of a familiar place-of a chair where, strapped in and screaming, she had been injected with serums that burned and scalded. Punished. Cut with knives, burnt with hot pokers. Though they had called it The Red Room, it was white as this very place; it was the stains left behind by its victims, not the walls within, that had given its name.

For the first time, Natasha was afraid. Sharply, she glanced down at her body which had been stripped bare of anything but a hospital gown and two plastic cuffs, inscribed with the same ten-digit number, that held her in place.

"Who's done this to me?" she snapped, but the words, in her fear, were issued in Russian, and a doctor nearby merely glanced at her with uncertainty.

He called out something fervently, and the door behind him swung open. Inside stepped the man, with his furrowed brown and his brown, serious eyes-and with startling clarity, the memories came pouring in-the gala, the attempted assassination, the subsequent run-in…and then…black. Nothing.

"You've taken all of my weapons away; is it really necessary to keep me chained up?" she said smoothly, nothing in her voice belying the anxiety she felt so keenly. She had finally been caught, and by S.H.I.E.L.D. no less; after all the atrocities she had committed, they would surely dispose of her-after torturing her for information, of course. At that, she was not worried; she had no loyalties to her employers, and would give away their secrets without batting an eye. It was her own past, sour and unpleasant as it truly was, that she doubted she could reveal-or, even if she _wanted to-_had the capacity to speak of. It was…too much to ask; for all that she wanted to live, death was sweeter. And besides, she had no true purpose. What point was there in stalling her life, when any escape would only lead to years and years of pointless massacre?

"I've seen you in action, Ms. Romanoff; I don't doubt that you're just as capable when left to your own devices, weapons or no weapons." Hesitating only a moment, he sat down at the edge of her bed; Natasha didn't so much as flinch.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked flatly. "You could easily have killed me before-and I doubt any information of mine will be much use to you, since I know full well you've been following me for several months now."

"Ms. Romanoff-is it entirely unfathomable to you that we don't want you dead?" came his patient answer. As an afterthought, he added evenly, "Or, at least-_I _don't."

Though Natasha made no reply, she raised a crimson brow in disbelief. Clint chuckled, which only made her eyes narrow dangerously. "And-why is that, Agent Barton?" she managed finally.

"To such an accomplished spy, I should think that would have been obvious." he returned wryly. "We want you-here. I do, anyway-though I've had quite a time convincing Fury not to shoot you on the spot; he wasn't too happy when I brought you back-alive. " As she eyed him, plainly taken aback by such an unexpected turn of events, he added, "You're quick, you're clever, you're well-trained. What does your life have to offer that S.H.I.E.L.D. can't give you?"

"I work alone, Agent Barton." she said blankly, meeting his gaze.

He eyed her for a moment, then stood abruptly. "I worked alone once, Ms. Romanoff." he said after a moment's thought. There was a forced lightness in his tone that was not lost on Natasha-she had, after all spent years of her life training to detect the motives of others; it was her specialty, and one she excelled at beyond all practical reasoning. "It didn't work out for me-and really, it doesn't seem to have turned out too well for you either."

Met with her unwavering expression, he put in briefly, "You'll have plenty of time to think about it; you're not going anywhere, that's for shit-sure. I'm afraid to say the alternative is out of my hands-and to be honest, Ms. Romanoff, it's probably death. I would consider that closely if I were you." His voice was strangely raw when he finished, "I would rather you lived."

Then, without bothering to wait for an answer, he left, closing the door gently behind him.

Natasha was silent, conflicted, alight with inexplicable rage, petrified to the very core of her being. For nearly ten minutes, she struggled aimlessly against the ties that bound her. Then, disgusted with her own impetuous stupidity, she fell exhausted against the bed's metal frame. She had learned long ago the properties of nearly every material on the face of the planet-and to her knowledge, those cuffs were certainly not going to be broken by a little angry flailing.

Besides-even if she _had _managed to break out…where would she go? She was no more or less useful to anyone-even herself-in this room than she was out there in the world, killing others senselessly for…what? Profit? Physical improvement? Or did it go deeper than that, to a part of herself she wasn't really willing to explore-an inability to change, a set of laws so deeply ingrained in her psyche that she doubted she would ever be able to forge a path of her own?

She had escaped her childhood captors seeking change. And yet…had she truly changed at all? She had grown stronger, of course, and far more clever. Acutely intelligent, manipulative, ten times more graceful than a gold-medal Olympic gymnast. And yet…what had she accomplished? What had she changed, really?

It took every fiber of her being-a sense of obligation, of _control, _beaten forcefully into her over the course of many years-for Natasha to bite back the scream that threatened to spill over. A raw, feral, angry scream. A scream for a girl she no longer knew-a girl she no longer even recognized as herself, so marred was she by coldness, by hatred, by fear, by the blood she had shed.

What was she meant for? _What was the point of her?_

She was soulless, wasn't she? A mindless puppet of a killing machine on a string-and yet the puppeteer had long ago loosened his hold on her (or rather, she had wrenched it from his grip)…and so _why was she still fighting? _What was she fighting_ for?_

This was her life on the line-a life that, though she feared and hated it in equal measure, she was not sure she wished to end so soon. Natasha was used to being owned, to being _used_, and perhaps all along a part of her had been running from the possibility of the very same fate, repeated again. Here, now, however-there was no other choice-none more appealing, in any event.

And in the end, it had always been her life that mattered. She had never loved, had never felt loyalty or compassion-not that, in any case, she could recall, unless one counted her adoptive father-and if, perhaps, she had loved him grudgingly..he had definitely never given her any reason to.

Yet despite that, this man had _saved her life. _Though she had gone out of her way to convince herself that his intentions were selfish, she knew better-and how could she not? The sincerity in his eyes had been unmistakable. In her, evidently, he had seen something worth saving. And even if she couldn't quite see it herself (no matter how angrily-how _desperately_-she had tried to understand what in the world had changed his mind...and stilled his hand) it hardly mattered.

She owed him, much as the very idea pained her almost physically-owed him in every sense of the word, in every manner one could ever really owe a person.

They were tied together-grudgingly, uncertainly, angrily even, but tied nonetheless.

She owed him _for her life._

Natasha realized she was being watched. She knew the methods of S.H.I.E.L.D. well; she had, after all, been running from them for so long-

But there was no reason to run, not anymore. She had been twisted, tormented, changed-sometimes, irrevocably-for a cause she knew next to nothing of. She had suffered without knowing she had suffered at all. She had lost herself, found it again, and run from it-terrified of who she was, of the things she wanted. She had lived for the men who had made her-but never for herself. Like a computer, she had been programmed-the correct data inserted, the petty bits and pieces of a human girl, now a woman, (her sorrows, her fears, her hopes, her dreams) withdrawn. A trained assassin had no use for such things.

All of her life, she had been fighting-or so she thought. And yet somehow, she had done so-without ever really fighting at all. She had accepted their jurisdiction, had allowed herself to be blown about on the winds of the fates they created, never so much as breathing without permission to do so. And even afterward-even after the passage of years and years, even when she had created a name for herself (an infamous name for herself) in a world where there was no one but her and her next victim-nothing had truly changed.

What difference did it make, that she had escaped? What difference did it make, that she deferred-or so she liked to think-to no one's will but her own? The rules had been set long ago, and she had accepted them. She could run a thousand miles-could change her name, alter her appearance, deny everything she ever was-and everything would be the same.

Or-perhaps not. Perhaps there was still a hope for change, desperately minuscule as it undoubtedly was. Perhaps a heart still beat within her chest-cosseted, hidden away-but _existing._

For the first time in her life, the strongest plan of attack...was to relent.

Quietly, smoothing a lock of hair from her eyes, she said one word: "Okay."


End file.
